Sitting in the chair, rocking heavily on the back legs, Jim could feel the sand giving way under his shifting weight. With each movement, as he pushed further away from the women, Jim noticed the edge of the table growing in stature. Initially, his stomach was hidden below a resting fork and empty plate. He was sure they were just for decoration, for the surrounding conversation never discussed food or the fact that they were all being made to wait. But the glasses were filled high, with an assortment of liquefied grapes-reds, whites, purples and the occasional yellow, which was apocryphally a white that was taking in a bit too much sun. Jim had two brothers. They would always be athletic, handsome and driven. At an early age, they made Jim hate the beach. He had no idea why he was wandering, giving them a point of reference, maybe it was because in present time, he had yet to find a word or a statement that could elicit a smile, or steer a voice in his direction. Jim’s mother was not a patient woman, so the ocean offered an alternative to her crying in the closet while her three boisterous kids disrupted every aspect of her day. He could still see her thin outline, sitting at an elevated point on the sand, the sea and even it’s shore were always doing their work down below. Jim was the most creative, especially when it came to excuses. On the day he was recalling, Jim was constructing a barrier of packed sand that could harness the power of the sun, and use its warm reflection to lure shells while keeping the nosiness of the water at bay. Innovation made him too busy to swim. As the current cycle dictated another forward lean, Jim was back amongst the women, but at least the other glasses were still accurately depicted as being completely full. One of the women smiled, reaching over she grabbed his twitching knee. Jim was sure she was annoyed by his swinging chair. Still, he was prepared to make good on his extroverted wish. Her smooth, bony fingers resembled a doll’s plastic, miniature hands, and yet Jim felt jabbed and sore. He had not considered the spectacle of his cause, recycling a deepening imprint, forcing a recurrence that left him stationary and stumped. Jim began to lament wanting any part of a crafty dialogue or inventing a friendly stare. His eye line was now well below his empty, uneven crystal stem . This time he purposely thought about his two brothers and decided a Vin jaune would absorb the vision of his mother, a welcomed theory, lured inside the trappings–of the limpid, colorless glass. Creativity could never be nostaligic while stationary…even if a jerky motion could be seen as a barrier to all that could be harnessed from being either spurious or young.